November Falls
by BlueEyedDemonLiz
Summary: They lose Sam in November....Teenchester fic with some serious Sam whumpage.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** November Falls - 1/2  
**Author**: Blueeyedliz  
**Word count**: 3,561  
**Rating**: NC/17 for bad language and violence  
**Summary**: They lose Sam in November....Teenchester fic with some serious Sam whumpage...what? Yes, I know I like whumping Sam and I'm totally okay with that. :D  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine.  
**A/N**: This is part one of a two part story, read with caution because part two isn't finished yet but will be posted next week, fingers and toes crossed. Thanks to the epically wonderful gidgetgal9 for beta'ing. I've played since then so all remaining mistakes are my own.

**November Falls - Part One**

They lose Sam in November. It's freezing cold and the ice on the roads sparkles when the sunlight hits it just right—tiny diamonds, scattered across the ground.

Sam is twelve years old. He's old enough to carry a shotgun on a hunt but young enough to still get sulky if the nearby greasy spoon is all out of chocolate milk.

Dean has nightmares every so often about the terrible things he's seen. Horrifying monsters with sharp jagged teeth and wickedly evil eyes. Sometimes, in his dreams, Dad is the first one to be slaughtered and sometimes it's Sammy but either way Dean always ends up alone. Dean doesn't tell anyone this but even though he loves the hunter lifestyle he's scared a lot of the time. His brave face is a mask he wears because it makes Dad proud and reassures his baby brother.

Dean is sixteen years old. He's old enough to drive the Impala even though he doesn't possess a genuine driver's permit but young enough to still get sick if he drinks too much of his dad's cheap whisky.

The current motel of choice is 'The Weary Traveller Inn' in Laramie, Wyoming. The lengthy, seemingly never-ending, drive to get there only mildly notable for the fact that Dad had caved to Sammy's pestering for once and agreed to take the scenic route I-80, passing a gigantic bronze sculpture of Abraham Lincoln's disembodied head on the way.

The motel is pretty unspectacular, the room is sub-standard and Dean's mattress has more lumps than Dad's homemade porridge. It's around midnight when Dean wakes to pitch-black darkness and the sound of screaming, he sits bolt upright in bed just in time to see Sam's feet disappearing out through the shattered window which hadn't been broken when they'd turned in for the night. At first he thinks it's another nightmare and it's only when he tries pinching himself awake that he realizes it's all horribly real.

Dad's drinking a beer in the dingy bar next-door to the motel, Sammy's gone and Dean's running through the parking lot in his bare feet and boxer shorts waving a loaded .45 at shadows and crying so much he can't see through the blur of tears.

Strangely enough, after that night, Dean's nightmares stop altogether and it's his life which becomes the bad dream he can't wake up from.

~0~

They look for Sam everywhere, exhaust every possible lead and personally eradicate every Supernatural nasty within spitting distance of the motel. But there's no trace of Sam, not anywhere. If it weren't for the duffle bag containing his few pitiable belongings and a handful of photographs, it would almost be as though the kid never existed at all.

Dad stops looking for Sammy after two years pass by but Dean, Dean never stop looking. He gives ever pre-pubescent boy with dark hair a double-take but none of them ever turn out to be his brother. Still, Sam is always at the forefront of his thoughts. He's the first thing Dean thinks about when he opens his eyes and the last thing he sees late at night is Sam's wide dimpled smile.

Dean counts the passing months in milestones, memorable dates from time spent growing up with Sam. Like how it was August and high-summer when Sam made his first kill because Dean remembers the sweat running down his kid brother's face and the way his own sweat-drenched tee clung to his chest, sticky and uncomfortable. The date of Sam's birthday in May passes without a mention but it's acknowledged in the way Dean closes in on himself more than ever and Dad spends the day hugging a bottle. But it's November, the month when Sam was taken that Dean finds the hardest of all to get through.

If truth be told, it never stops hurting.

~0~

When Dean reaches eighteen, Dad forgets his birthday but a week later, when he finally remembers, he gives him his precious leather jacket as a makeshift gift. In the hidden pocket sewn into the lining where Dad used to stow a small hipflask filled with holy water, Dean keeps a photograph of him and Sam. It's faded and dog-eared from too much handling but Dean would never part with it. At times he's worried to death that he'll forget what Sam looks like, even though he could never erase the image of his brother he already has burned into his brain like a cattle brand. Sam's fourteen now, Dean thinks. If Sam's still breathing, he's _fourteen_.

Keeping that small Polaroid eases the pain and guilt but like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dam, Dean knows he's just biding his time until it all comes crashing in on him.

When they were growing up, Sam had always been an enigma to Dean. So it really shouldn't have come as such a surprise that the kid would turn up in an entirely unexpected place, at a time when Dean was barely holding on with the skin of his teeth to the hope that his brother would return.

~0~

Dean's on a solo hunt, sitting in the Impala and scouting out a bar in downtown Wilmington, North Carolina which is reputed to be a favoured drinking joint of a Selkie who has more of a taste for fresh blood than it does for a brewski. Dean's done his research, he knows a Selkie can shed its seal-like skin to take on the form of a human and so tonight, everyone entering the Deep Blue Bar is a suspect.

He's digging through the glove box for the last of the stale donuts bought over a week ago, when he resumes staring out of the windshield and it's then that he sees a young kid leaning against the wall outside of the bar. The kid must only be fourteen or fifteen but he's real tall and kind of skinny looking much like a willow tree. He has thick chestnut hair and Dean's brain automatically starts thinking _Sammy_ as it does with every kid who meets that same vague description but when the teenager lifts his head Dean knows...he _knows_ it really is Sam.

Dean's fingers scramble to unlock the Impala door and he breaks into a run, crossing the street in-between busy traffic in the direction of the bar. The kid's head pops up at the thundering sound of running footsteps and he looks half scared to death. He's preparing to bolt but Dean reaches out to grab hold of his shoulders, holding him firmly in place.

Sam's face has barely changed at all in the two years they've been apart but there's dirt smeared on his cheeks and his hair is filthy, he looks like a street kid. There's less softness to his features, more hard lines and a definite guarded edge to his hazel eyes which wasn't there before. "Sammy?" The name leaves Dean's mouth as a croaky whisper.

Sam blinks once, then twice before his eyes go wide. "D—Dean?"

"Thank God." Dean wraps his brother in a hug. He buries his nose deep into Sam's hair and takes several huge deep breaths, breathing in the scent of him. Dean is often up close and personal with a whole range of diverse aromas from phameldahide to iodine to the stink of burning corpses and yet Sam smells exactly like home. It takes awhile but eventually he feels Sam's arms snaking around his back and Sam's shoulders start trembling with sobs.

When they pull away from each-other both their noses are red and their eyes are shining. Sam's chewing on his bottom lip like he's trying to stop himself from bawling any more and his hands are clinging to Dean, bunching up the material of his leather jacket with white-knuckled fists. "You need to get out of here."

Dean almost laughs, he finds the suggestion that hilarious. "Like hell. What happened to you, Sammy? Where've you been? Jesus, man, we searched everywhere for you. Tore up half the damn country looking." Dean's already walking back towards the car, towing Sam along with him. The hunt isn't even an afterthought for him now.

"Wait...Dean, _wait_!" Sam pulls to a halt and claws to free Dean's hand which is wrapped around his wrist. "I can't go with you."

"You're kidding, right?" Dean scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm not leaving without you."

"Please, Dean. Please. He'll be here any minute now. You _have_ to leave." Sam's eyes are desperate and something worse than that, much worse in Dean's mind, is the fear he can see simmering there.

"Who? _Who_ will be here, Sammy?"

And just like one of those nightmares Dean used to have, Sam yanks himself free and makes a break for it.

Dean runs after him, arms and legs pumping like pistons, his lungs burning. Sam isn't fast, in fact he seems to be struggling to keep up a decent pace but he's a wily son of a bitch, dipping down alleyways and doubling back on himself until Dean doesn't have the first clue where he even is anymore. Dean's close to catching him several times but he never gets close enough and eventually loses sight of his brother outside a row of old apartment buildings. The string of expletives which leaves Dean's lips like a burst of gunfire would have made Lenny Bruce blush. He almost breaks his hand throwing a punch at the solid brick wall of the building he's standing closest too.

Dean really thinks he's lost Sam for good this time.

~0~

Dean spends the next day searching for his brother. He calls all the homeless shelters and the hospitals, pounds the pavement and drives the length and breadth of Wilmington, _twice_. He waves Sam's photograph in the face of every half-sober down-and-out he comes across and more than likely scares the pants off them in the process. Frenzied and dangerous isn't a good look on any Winchester.

He's meant to be meeting up with his dad in Indianapolis on Sunday but he knows he won't be going anywhere until he's found out what the hell is going on with Sammy. It's only when he goes back to that same bar from his first night in Wilmington and stumbles across the Selkie that he realizes he should have been paying attention to his hunt all along.

The Selkie looks like any average Joe. Short dark blonde hair, average height and build, no distinguishing marks. He could be a trucker or the local barkeep. He's dressed in casual clothes too, a simple button-down shirt and jeans but as he's leaving the bar, Dean sees the split second when the Selkie drops his guard because when he climbs into a dirt covered mustang, he picks up a bottle of water and pours the contents over his face, groaning with pleasure as it splashes over his skin.

Dean's had nothing but finding Sam on his mind all day but he can't help thinking _score_. Lore states Selkies are unable to stay on dry land for long and often have to return to the sea after feeding, Dean starts the Impala's engine and starts to follow the mustang out of the bar's parking lot. Looks like this sucker is starting to dry out.

He trails the Selkie back to an apartment building on the same street where he'd originally lost sight of Sam and _fuck_, Dean's interest is really starting to go up a notch. He climbs out of the Impala and watches from the shadows as the Selkie walks right up the steps and through the large entrance door. Dean follows the creature up several flights of stairs, always staying a few steps behind, out of sight.

The Selkie stops on the third floor and produces a key from its jacket pocket, swiftly disappearing through a door which has a wobbly brass number plate marked _Room_ _19_ fighting to stay fixed in place by way of a loose nail. Almost as soon as the door closes behind the Selkie, Dean hears the sound of shouting voices. One of the voices is achingly familiar. One of the voices belongs to Sam.

Dean's ready to kick the door down when it all goes deathly quiet. He waits until he can't wait any longer, until the artificial sallow light seeping out from the gap underneath the door goes dark, then he steps forward and picks the lock.

Pushing the door open reveals a gloomy narrow hallway which reeks of too many years of neglect. The walls are bare, not a single framed photograph or well-placed mirror in sight. The woodchip wallpaper is peeling away in places, hanging down like curls of shavings from a pencil sharpener. There are three doors in total, all closed, which it doesn't take a university degree to figure out must lead to the apartment's main living spaces. Dean licks at his lips, wipes his sweating palms down the front of his pants and braces himself to find out what is hiding behind mystery door number one.

~0~

It's a normal bedroom and Dean suppresses a relieved sigh. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, a ferocious rampaging Selkie perhaps, waiting to suck his face off and lap at his pooling blood like the cat who got the cream.

The room is dimly lit by one dismally weak bedside lamp and at that moment Dean notices that over by the wall, flat on his back on the too small bed, is Sam.

Dean swallows hard around the lump in his throat which feels like a rapidly inflating balloon. At first glance, he thinks Sam's asleep but as he edges closer to the bed he realizes that Sam's eyes aren't even closed. They're half-open and all Dean can see is the whites. It's a huge change from when he saw his brother yesterday. Even then Sam hadn't looked healthy but now the difference is unnerving, unnatural. Sam's skin is so pale and thin it's almost as though he's made out of fine parchment paper, the kind used in ancient books kept locked away in deep library vaults because the pages can tear even if you simply breathe on them too heavily. Sam's arms and legs are laid out as straight as rods, it's such a tiny detail but it's one which screams out to Dean how seriously wrong the picture in front of him is.

Dean leans over the bed and he can hear Sam's breathing. Heavy, laboured almost panting gasps for air and Dean's stomach churns with a sick fear as cold as the November wind which whistles through the night and makes every sleeping infant huddle under their blankets that much deeper.

Dean has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from shouting Sam's name and shaking at his brother's shoulder until the kid's bones rattle. He's waited so long to find Sam again, it takes everything he has not to pick Sam up under one arm and just run. God knows where to, anywhere, just away from here.

He crouches down by the side of the bed, fingers worrying the edge of the sheet which Sam's long frame is spread out on. "Sammy?"

Sam seems to be so out of it that Dean doesn't truthfully expect a response but Sam's head rolls slowly towards him on the thin pillow, eyelids lifting so that he can peer at Dean. Dean can't read the emotions that flit across Sam's face too fast for him to name but he knows for dead certain that happiness isn't one of them.

"I'm getting you out of here." Dean doesn't wait for Sam's answer, not even convinced whether the kid could formulate one or not , all he can think about is that Sam's sick, Sam needs help.

Sam mews a soft low moan of protest as Dean slides one arm under his brother's knees and the other he positions behind Sam's back, lifting him up into his arms with all the ease he had when Sam was just a runt of a child. Sam's too thin now, frail and light like a feather when by rights he should be brawny and lithe. Strong like a hunter should be.

Dean pauses, Sam still hanging all but limp in his arms. He can hear footsteps in the hallway outside of the bedroom. Not loud footsteps but the soft tread of someone moving carefully, someone trying not to make a sound.

Dean carefully positions Sam back down on the bed, patting Sam's arm soothingly when he notices Sam's eyes are still open but struggling to track his movements. He draws the gun he has wedged in the waistband of his jeans, cool metal briefly sliding against the warm skin of his back leaving a line of tingling flesh in its wake.

His gun is a Glock, one he's used many times before but it's never felt as heavy as it does right now. He's going to kill the Selkie; he's going to make it pay for every single second Sam was kept apart from his family.

The door creaks open on squeaking hinges and Dean brings the butt of his gun down with a brutally hard swing of his arm, hearing the satisfying crunch of bone as it connects with the Selkie's skull. The Selkie drops, falls and lands in an unmoving heap on the floor and Dean kicks it hard once in the stomach. He's drawing back his foot to boot at the creature again when he hears Sam gasp and he turns jerkily to glance over at the bed.

Sam's eyes are squeezed closed as though he's in pain and Dean doesn't need more incentive than that. He pulls back the trigger and fires. The silver bullet shatters half the Selkie's skull, fragmented bone and brain matter making pretty patterns on the carpet but Dean isn't disgusted, what he feels about the killing transends that. It reaches dark places inside of him that only Sam's pain can touch.

Sam moans again and Dean is by his side in two long strides, collecting Sam from the bed once more and hurrying out of the room, out of the apartment. The local downtown cops are going to find one hell of a clean-up job when the neighbors starts complaining about a strange smell coming from Room 19 but Dean doesn't want to hang around. He doesn't even stop to wipe his prints. He's not worried about Chief Wiggum and his donut-munching PD. Dean's a ghost to the cops and Feds anyway, Dad always saw to it that all the Winchesters were.

~TBC~

_Reviews are most welcome and will give me something nice and shiny to focus on while going through the torment of waiting for next week's episode...._


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** November Falls - 2/?  
**Author**: Blueeyedliz  
**Word count**: 2,615 (this part)  
**Rating**: NC/17 for bad language and violence  
**Summary**: They lose Sam in November....  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine.  
**A/N**: This is no longer just a two-part story as I reckon it'll run to 3 or 4 chapters. *facepalm* Next time I try to guess the length of one of my WIPs can someone please remind me that I'm about as good at guessing such an outcome as the little old lady who bets her life savings on the Grand National and backs a one-legged donkey with cataracts. A massive thank you once again to gidgetgal9 for saving my ass countless times with her wonderful beta'ing.

**  
November Falls – Part Two  
**

By a babbling brook, where the border of North Carolina kisses lips with the edge of Virginia, there's an enormous boulder surrounded by sugar maples which the locals have nicknamed _the hand of God_ due to its unusual shape. If you stand in the right spot—and tilt your head to one side, maybe squint a little—it does _sort of _bear a resemblance to a hand reaching upwards towards the sky.

Most of the folks who live in the area genuinely believe the boulder grants wishes if you rub at the side of the rock which looks like five long fingers curled together. It's a fanciful idea at best but the boulder attracts enough tourists to warrant an ice-cream stall being set up there in the summer and on a cool November morning like today the air smells of cinnamon from the stall which is now selling steaming cups of hot chocolate and sweet roasted nuts to day-trippers and other assorted passersby who are feeling the crisp bite in the air a little too acutely.

The Impala roars over the narrow bridge which crosses the brook and the boulder is quickly nothing more than a smudge of grey in the rear-view mirror. Dean doesn't take his foot off the gas, not even to read the roadside signs declaring how _the hand of God makes dreams come true_. Dean doesn't believe in God and he doesn't believe in a magical lump of stone either, not when he's found Sam only to be at risk of losing him again.

Sam's low moans have amplified into blood-curdling screams during the short amount of time he's been lying stretched out on the Impala's backseat and Dean is caught between concentrating on the road and twisting his head around towards the back of the car so that he can panic over the writhing form of his brother.

A little further down the road, Dean finally accepts that he's trying to get away from something which he can't outrun. He pulls the car over into a muddy shoulder and hurriedly gets out. He opens the passenger door, half-climbing inside so as to let Sam's head rest against his thigh. Sam's eyes are rolling, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish and _holy shit_...Dean doesn't know what the hell to do.

"Sam? Sammy, what's going on?" Dean begs, his fingers carding through Sam's sweaty hair. It's the night when Sam was taken all over again because Dean was crying over his brother then too. Dean swipes angrily at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, the sense of helplessness is suffocating and worry is clawing his insides into ribbons.

"W—Water." Sam mumbles, slurring enough that Dean immediately starts frantically scrabbling underneath the driver's seat for the bottle he's knows is wedged under there. It's lukewarm and stale but he uncaps it and pushes it towards Sam's lips.

Sam drinks some, coughing and spluttering as the water slides down his throat. "No, Dean. _Water_."

Dean scrubs at his face confused and frustrated, wondering if Sam's delirious or if he himself is missing something obvious. Slowly his brain starts putting two and two together and eventually he comes up with something far more terrible than four. No. Oh God. No.

He doesn't have much of a choice or even much time, Sam is suffering and Dean simply cannot bear to sit by and watch, doing nothing. At least now he has some small inkling as to what the hell is going on and while it leaves a bad taste in his mouth—the nastiest flavour imaginable coating  
his tongue—for the first time since finding Sam he feels like he can do something to help.

A quick scan of their surroundings reveals to Dean that there, right there—only a short distance away from the highway—is the rocky shore of the Mayo River. He pulls Sam out of the Impala half-carrying, half-dragging him away from the road. Sam's arm is floppy, hanging around his shoulder and he's lugging most of the kid's weight as they stumble through the long grass towards the river. It's close to sunset and the water is shimmering with the rich light of a burnt orange sky.

Dean kicks off his boots and then picks Sam up so that he can wade into the water with his kitten-weak brother held in his arms. He wades further and further out, leaving the shallows behind and heading towards the middle where the water is cooler, darker and deeper. Trying not to slip on the rocks and ignoring the mud and slime squelching into his socks and in-between his toes, it's so chilly that Dean has to suck in a deep lungful of air just to catch his breath. Once the water reaches Dean's waist he stops and carefully lowers Sam into the running river until only his head is above the surface.

Cold murky water splashes over them both, soaking their clothes and turning their exposed skin into gooseflesh. "Jesus, Sammy. If I'd have known I was going swimming I'd have brought my bikini." Dean jokes, resorting to his preferred modus operandi in an attempt to bury the fact that all of this is badly scaring the shit out of him.

It's like nothing Dean's ever seen before. The Mayo River isn't mystical, he knows that much at least but there's no denying that the water is starting to take on an almost magical quality as it washes over Sam's skin. There's a pale white glowing light swirling through the water around them which wasn't there moments before. Dean's pretty damn tempted to haul ass right out of there until he notices what is starting to happen.

The dark circles bruising the fragile skin underneath Sam's eyes are beginning to fade and he's only been in the river for a matter of minutes but already he looks refreshed, rejuvenated and appears virtually lucid again. "Dean, what's going on?" Sam asks, groggy eyes blinking open and confusion crinkling his brow as he glances around taking in the fact that he's fully dressed...in the middle of a river...with Dean cradling him like a newborn.

"That's what I want to know, little brother." Dean mutters shakily as he gives Sam a squeezing—never to be mentioned again—hug before finally releasing his hold so that his brother can let his feet touch the river bed. "Enough doggy-paddling, let's get to dry land before the leeches start cottoning on to what an irresistibly tasty piece of flesh I am."

Sam just gives him a bewildered double-take and starts wading towards the bank.

~0~

There are no towels in the Impala just a ratty blanket that bares some rather questionable stains. Still, beggars can't be choosers and that much Dean appreciates as he tries to dry himself off, chatting teeth and shivering hands making the job take twice as long.

When they're both dry and huddled back inside the Impala with the heaters turned up full blast, Dean turns in his seat and eyeballs Sam, waiting for him to break under the full force of his patented big brother glare.

Sam visibly squirms in his seat under such close scrutiny. Dean's clothes are hanging ludicrously big on his smaller, slimmer frame.

He's been eyeing up the scenery like they're driving through the tropical rain-forests of southern Africa and he's spent the last two years living in the dark and fuck, maybe Sam has but that's what Dean wants—_needs_—to know. He needs to know everything that's happened to Sam, every last painful detail. "Sam? We can have this talk now or later and I'll let you take the lead on how you want to do this, I will...but we need to talk at some point."

"Can we get something to eat?" Sam asks, smoothly diverting the course of the conversation, his face almost desperately hopeful.

"Are you kidding me? Like you even have to ask." Dean's stomach's been under the impression that his throat's been cut for a few hours now. He's ravenous but hasn't really considered eating until Sam brought up the subject. He presses his foot down and urges the Impala to move faster.

~0~

They end up in a Wendy's, sitting side-by-side in a booth and if Sam finds it strange that Dean insists on sitting next to him—so close that Sam's forced into getting intimate with the grimy window overlooking the parking lot—instead of over on the other side of the table, well, he doesn't mention it.

Sam wolfs down his Double Cheeseburger Deluxe like he hasn't eaten in a week and Dean grins around a huge messy mouthful of his own half-chewed flame-grilled dead cow patty. Maybe it's the company but Dean hasn't enjoyed his food this much in a long, long time.

When Sam has finished slurping up the last of his Dr. Pepper through a straw, he keeps his head lowered, staring down at the plastic backed menu on their table. Dean knows the kid isn't pondering the advantages of choosing a Vanilla Frosty over a Chocolate Fudge Frosty Shake. It's because Sam won't, or can't, meet Dean's eyes.

"I'm bonded to him." Sam speaks slowly, as if he's struggling to find the right words. His fingers are tugging at the neck of his t-shirt as though it's too tight, restricting his air supply. "Silas bonded me to him so that he could live amongst humans more easily."

"Silas? His name was Silas? You're going to tell me that that freak of nature had a social security number next." Dean stops talking, jaw clenching and hands tightening their grip on the edge of the table. "Bonded? How? I don't understand..."

"I have to be in the water. I—I have to go swimming or take a bath or shower several times a day otherwise we get sick."

"We?" Dean realizes then that maybe Sam didn't hear him earlier or maybe intentionally ignored the past-tense reference Dean made to the Selkie. "I killed him, Sammy. Silas is dead."

Sam finally turns to look at Dean, the whites of his eyes already turning red, brimming with unshed tears. "He's dead?"

"As a doornail. Don't tell me you're feeling sorry for that evil crotch stain? He took you away, I—I spent almost two years searching, praying to anyone who would listen that you weren't dead already."

"Not sorry." Sam mumbles and Dean reaches out to cup the back of his neck with the palm of his hand when he notices that Sam's shaking. "Not sorry, just relieved." Sam sucks in a breath, trying to compose himself. "After I saw you, at the bar, I didn't go for a swim. I mean, I forgot all about it and Silas was furious...I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel. But, if he's dead now then why did I still get sick, surely the bond must be broken?"

"I don't know, kiddo but we'll find a way to fix it."

"Dean."

"Don't, okay, just hear me out. Me and Dad, we'll fix this…Shit! Dad!" Dean briefly presses his forehead against the sticky tabletop and groans loudly. "Dad is going to tan my hide six ways to Sunday...I haven't called him. He'll be giving Griffin an earful no doubt."

Sam swallows hard. "Dean, who's Griffin?"

Dean shakes his head and turns away, all of his attention abruptly fixing in on soaking up a ketchup puddle with the last of his french fries. It hasn't really hit him until right now that Sam has been gone _two years_. It's not so much the fact that Sam was kidnapped because that's a nightmarish period in Dean's life which he will never be able to forget, it's the fact that two years is a heck of a long time in anyone's book and a lot can change in that time. It hurts Dean to think that this Sam isn't the twelve-year-old kid he remembers, that person is lost to him forever.

Dean guesses it means he's going to be spending a lot of time getting to know his brother again but considering the alternative Dean is totally fine with that. "Dean?" Dean lifts his gaze and can't help but grin at the concern and confusion he can see duking it out for supremacy on Sam's face. The sight of it brings back a whole heap of memories of the ever-inquisitive, little brother he knew. The one who always had a question poised on his lips even though it used to drive Dad crazy.

"When you went missing, I—I didn't go hunting for quite some time. It pissed Dad off to no end but I couldn't concentrate on a hunt when all I wanted was to find you…so Dad called Griffin. He's someone Dad met in the early days, just after mom..._after mom_. Griffin taught him a lot about hunting back then and he trusts the guy so I didn't have a problem with it, it meant Dad had someone watching his back at least. I finally started taking on a few solo hunts when I turned eighteen and so now, if I'm ever out of town and Dad needs a hand, he teams up with Griffin."

"Guess I missed a lot then, huh?" Sam asks.

"We missed _you_ a lot, doofus." Dean says, hand hovering close to Sam's head like he's tempted to ruffle his hair but not quite sure how Sam would react. "Look, I don't want Dad running his truck off the road. Let's go meet him in Indianapolis like I'd arranged and then we'll get you fixed and we'll be together again, a family."

"You make me sound like a broken waffle iron, Dean." Sam smiles without humor.

"Sam, you have told me everything, right? Because if that…thing did anything else to hurt you. If it touched you..."

"No. Jesus, Dean. Nothing happened like that. Silas fed me, put a roof over my head and providing I never gave him reason to, he never hurt me."

"Did you ever?"

"What?"

"Give him reason to, Sam?"

"I tried to run a few weeks after I was taken. Let's just say he wasn't best pleased with me."

Dean grits his teeth, eyes darkening. "I'm going to....dig up his corpse just so I can have the satisfaction of killing him all over again." Dean's a ball of energy, fingers twitching with the desire to act. Instead he settles for tearing up a napkin. Picking up another one when he's done with the first and repeating the destruction all over again.

"I just want to go home." Sam says, reaching out to still Dean's fidgeting hands. "I want to see Dad."

Dean nods in agreement and as he slides out of the booth to pay the check he tries to push away the uncomfortable niggling feeling that Sam is hiding something from him.

~TBC~

_Thanks for reading, some action and whumping to come next week. Reviews are always warmly welcomed. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** November Falls - 3/?  
**Author**: Blueeyedliz  
**Word count**: 3,322 (this part)  
**Rating**: NC/17 for bad language and violence  
**Summary**: They lose Sam in November....  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine.  
**A/N**: Sorry for the delay, RL hasn't been kind lately. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and especially to those who poked me about this chapter, I nearly always go though a deprecating period of self-doubt when attempting multi-chapter fics...so an encouraging kick up the ass is always a good thing. Huge thanks to Gidgetgal9 and Sendintheclowns for suffering through the early draft and betaing this for me. I've played since then so any remaining mistakes are all mine.

**November Falls - Part Three**

Sam hunches down in his seat for the rest of the ride, quiet until Dean asks him if he's okay and then Sam nods once, a quick jerk of his head and mumbles something which sounds like _uhuh_ and translates into _yes_.

He doesn't look okay. His skin is waxen and his hands are jittering in his lap, the constant motion of his fingertips rubbing against his thigh contradicts his otherwise steadfast stillness. Dean wants to get Sam to their dad in one piece but can't help taking his eyes off the road to peer over at his brother. Finding Sam, getting him back, it's a type of incredible luck that Dean's never been blessed with before and it's almost too good to be true. Dean can't relax because he's waiting for Sam to vanish, disappear from the passenger seat like the hallucination Dean's convinced his brother has got to be.

Dean puts on some music after the heavy silence in the car becomes even too much for him to stomach. When he looks in the rear-view mirror, he can see the empty backseat. The same bench seat which Sam always used to splay out on, all awkward limbs too long to properly fit, only two years ago.

It wasn't this Sam, this silent wary Sam who is sitting by Dean's side like a stranger but rather the Sam who liked school and chocolate shakes and watermelon Pop Rocks and would watch early morning cartoons if he thought no-one else was awake to rag him for it. The same Sam who couldn't still his flapping lips from moving for five minutes even if his life depended on it.

It's been two years but it feels like a hundred years to Dean.

Fifty miles outside of Indianapolis, Dean holds out the box containing his tape collection towards his brother, waving it under the kid's nose. "You wanna pick the tunes? You—you still like music?"

"_Yes _I still like music." Sam replies somewhat snarkily, quirking his eyebrow as though he thinks Dean's obviously insane for even suggesting otherwise. "Just not yours." He adds with a quick grin which fades away again too swiftly. "Anyway, you never used to let me choose."

Dean barks out a laugh and pulls the box of tapes back towards himself. "Yeah, I guess that's right. Anyway, I don't have any Celine Dion so it looks like you're bang out of luck, Sammy." He roots around for awhile, one hand on the wheel and more focus on his tapes than the road ahead. "AC/DC it is."

"Asshead." Sam mutters, almost too low for Dean to catch but Dean does hear it and he's way too happy that something familiar has slipped from Sam's lips that he doesn't even bother with a comeback.

The rest of the drive is done in easy silence, except for the sounds of AC/DC blaring out through the speakers naturally.

~0~

Dad's staying at the Budget King Motel on the outskirts of the city, this Dean knows simply because Dad put as much in his last text message. Dean's plenty familiar with cheap and tacky motels and so far, taking the name into consideration, Dean would bet high stakes that the room will have roaches, ineffective air conditioning which putters noisily all night long and a shower that dribbles water like a toothless old guy eating a big bowl of soup.

Dean leaves Sam in the car when he goes inside. Jokingly he tells Sam it's because Dad's getting on in years and might keel over with the shock but really, he wants to take things slow for Sam's sake. Sam seems fragile in a way Dean doesn't yet fully understand and ever since that freaky ass light show in the river, there's a stubbornly insistent warning alarm ringing in Dean's brain, one which refuses to be switched off.

Both Dad and Griffin are there in the room, pouring over a map spread out on one of the beds. Dad looks tired, there's a fresh purple bruise painting the skin around his right eye and Griffin has his wrist in a brace. Griffin's chin-length grey hair is falling forwards, tumbling across his face as he leans closer to the map and he irritably shoves the stray strands behind his ear with his good hand. Dean grins despite his own fatigue, he doesn't know why Griffin doesn't just take the sarcastic advice Dean loves to give him and wear it in braids.

"Need me to read the small print for you old man?" Dean says, pushing the door closed behind him with his foot.

"Dean." Griffin's face breaks into an easy smile and he steps forward to slap Dean's shoulder in a fairly heavy-handed show of masculine fondness. "Less of the old man. These grey hairs are premature, every single one of them caused by your Pop."

John studies the map for a few more seconds before finally lifting his head to acknowledge Dean's arrival. God, his eye is a mess but even with it mostly swollen shut he still manages to pull off a rather impressive scowl. "You're late, you were meant to be here at noon."

_Missed you too Dad_. "I know, sir, but I've got one heck of an excuse." Dad looks like he's ready for an argument. Dad hates excuses but Dean raises his hand and Dad's surprised enough about being cut off that he actually does stay quiet. "Maybe you should take a seat?"

"Dean." John growls, finger stabbing at the crumpled map. "We've got a situation here that needs to be handled, I don't have time..."

"Dad, just listen to me. Please? There's—there's someone in the car you should meet." John's frown widens, agitation only increasing. "Wait here a sec, I'll go get him." And with that Dean ducks back outside, returning moments later with a shell-shocked looking Sam tucked into his side, Dean's arm curled tight around his brother's thin shoulders.

John stares, stumbles back a step so that his legs hit the end of the bed and he falls heavily, finishing up sitting clumsily half-on, half-off the edge of the mattress. "Jesus Christ."

"Close enough." Dean smiles but it falters when he feels Sam's body tensing as Sam's eyes dart from their dad to Griffin and back again.

John seems to pull himself together, his initial shock swiftly forgotten for the moment. He stands up and Sam shrinks closer into Dean's side as Dad's huge form lumbers across the room to pull him into a crushing hug. John's hand grips Sam's head so closely to his chest that Sam would suffocate if Dean didn't tap his Dad's arm to remind him that Sam sort of needs to breathe, sometime soon preferably. "I don't...I don't believe it. It's really you, Sam."

It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement. Sam's on the brink of tears as he stares up at his dad's face, a face he hasn't seen in two years, at least not in anywhere other than his dreams. "It's me, Dad. It's me."

Griffin watches the reunion from the sidelines, warmth tingling in his belly at the rare sight of John Winchester speechless with what he knows must be overpowering happiness. "I'll go get takeout and some beers. Reckon this calls for a celebration."

Griffin's not offended that nobody seems to hear him or even notice when he slips out of the room, smiling all the way.

~0~

The next couple of days are hard for everyone but things slowly start to become more comfortable once Sam relaxes enough to actually smile freely when Dean makes a joke and both Dean and John force themselves to stop staring at Sam as though he's walking around with two heads.

The only thing preventing Dean from being as happy as a sailor with a hooker and a weekend of shore leave is Sam's strange connection to the cadaver formally known as Silas.

It's Dean's first instinct to want to tell Dad the truth about how he found his brother but barely seconds after Sam had disentangled himself from Dad's arms, he had taken Dean to one side and begged for more time. More time to adjust Sam had said, more time to try and see if they can figure things out for themselves and however much Dean hates the idea of keeping secrets from their father, he can't deny his brother's request. Even when not faced with hazel eyes affecting enough to reduce even the most hardened hunter into a sandal wearing tree-hugger, he'd only had Sam back for approximately thirty-eight hours and knew he couldn't deny the kid anything, keys to the Impala included.

Luck is on their side because John and Griffin are professional enough to remember to be busily preoccupied with the necessity to finish their hunt for a homicidal Kobold sprite who has been slicing and dicing residents of a local retirement home. With both older hunters out of the way for most of the time, Sam and Dean have the motel room pretty much to themselves. They can research Selkie lore without being discovered and the situation even allows Sam to shower as often as he needs to without John or Griffin wondering if he's developed OCD over his personal hygiene.

It's the morning of the third day when things go south lightening fast. Dean has only nipped to the vending machine for a soda and when he gets back to the room, he finds Griffin has returned earlier than expected. As Dean walks inside Griffin is just stepping out of the bathroom, his face flushed and blood...Dean's sharp eyes immediately spot the tiny specks of blood dotted across Griffin's knuckles. "Grif? You okay?"

"Did you know?" Griffin says sharply, breathing heavily through his nose as he slams the bathroom door closed and storms forward to stand chest to chest with Dean.

Dean steps back automatically and shakes his head, confused and increasingly worried. He turns around to look over the room. There's a lamp lying in broken pieces on the table and some of the bedclothes are in a twisted heap on the floor. Sam? Sam was reading when Dean left. His book is there on the nightstand but...."Know what?"

"That your brother is a monster."

Dean turns cold at Griffin's words, stone cold. "What did you do, Griffin? WHAT DID YOU DO?" He's screaming but not really aware of it, hurrying towards the bathroom while shoving at Griffin's hands which reach out to try and stop him. The same hands which are stained with blood.

He pushes the door open and instantly sees Sam curled up on the floor next to the bath, hands protecting his face—his lip—which is split and dripping blood down his chin like a leaking faucet. Rage pulses through Dean's system, red hot rage which instantly melts the cold fear he had felt before. He drops to his knees and Sam flinches noticeably when Dean tries to move Sam's hands away so he can properly assess the damage.

Griffin's still talking and his words slowly start to filter through to Dean, penetrating the red haze he's caught up in. "He was drinking blood. I caught him _drinking blood_." Griffin's voice shakes as though he's disgusted, appalled to have witnessed something so abhorrent.

Wait. What? Dean pauses horror-struck in the midst of his triage. He shakes it off again almost as quickly, pushes it away, pushes it down deep to deal with later. Dean licks across his lips, stands up slowly, back to Griffin. "So, you thought you'd what? Beat him up? Smack him around some?"

"Dean...Dean, you're not being rational. He's your brother and I'm sorry but...he can't stay breathing. He's not human, Dean." Griffin has a small red smear across his forehead where he's obviously swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. Dean's eyes can't look at anything else.

"You touch my brother again and _I will kill you_, friend or not." It's an immediate response—like sticking out your hands to brace yourself in a fall—a threat towards Sam and the small hunting knife tucked in Dean's boot lets its presence be known. It feels like it's white hot, blistering the skin on his ankle and Dean wants to draw it. Wave it around a little to emphasise his point but he settles for balling his hands into fists instead. Griffin eyes Sam thoughtfully but then his eyes move back to Dean's angry face. Even though Dean is smaller, younger he can be deadly when he wants to be. Griffin's been around the Winchesters long enough to appreciate that fact.

"Your dad won't see things like you do." Griffin sounds confident and Dean doesn't argue because Griffin is probably right. Griffin is the older man, the more experienced hunter of the pair but Dad has an unspoken air of authority about him which nobody argues with. Whenever they hunt together, Dad bellows orders and Griffin goose-steps right along.

Dean can feel sweat beading on the back of his neck. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing, the only thing he's truly certain of is that he's getting Sam out of here. Danger means fighting but where danger and Sam meet, it will always mean it's time to get the fuck out. Every muscle in Dean's legs throbs with the need for it.

He loves his dad fiercely but he loves Sam more and right now, he's not sure what will happen when his dad finds out the truth. This goes way beyond his brother having to take a shower or soak in a tub several times a day and Dean's damn sure that when Dad gets back to the motel, things won't end pretty.

Trying to ignore the way Sam will barely even look at him, Dean wraps a hand around Sam's bicep and hauls him to his feet. He guides him out of the bathroom and deposits him on one of the beds, thrusting a balled up towel into his hand so Sam can clean up the blood on his mouth and chin. Griffin watches silently, an unreadable expression on his face as Dean quickly starts yanking open drawers, pulling out crumpled clothes and shoving them into a duffel. When he feels Sam's eyes on him he mumbles, "pack a bag, we're leaving in five."

~0~

They drive for a long time without talking. Sam is more distant than ever, the steps they had been taking towards being a family again seemingly destroyed. Staring out of the window he's turned away from Dean with his whole body, his posture radiating that he wants to be left alone. Dean's too caught up in his own thoughts to really notice, Griffin's words trapped in an endless loop of instant replay inside his head.

"It was a rat, Dean. It's was a rat's blood." Sam says suddenly and his voice sounds broken, dried out and crackled—as though he's been talking nonstop instead of being almost catatonic for the last two hours.

Dean sucks his bottom lip in, bites down on it and focuses on the stab of pain. "You didn't tell me. Why didn't you tell me, Sam?"

"I didn't want you to think..."

"What?"

"That I wasn't your brother anymore, Dean. I'm still him. I'm still Sam." In the darkness Dean can see Sam's face and the flitting shadows inside the car make him look old, worn down. "I'm trying so hard to fight it but the bond; it's stronger than I am."

Dean steadies his breathing, forces himself to sound calm and confident, flippant almost. "So besides the water and the blood drinking, there anything else I should know?" It's an Academy Award winning performance.

Sam shakes his head and the shutters come down in his gaze. "That's bad enough."

_  
No kidding_. "We'll fix it." Dean replies automatically but Dad is a few hundred miles behind them by now and almost certainly livid at Dean's betrayal. Dean has no doubts that what he's done, this running away with Sam, will be seen as an act of betrayal in his dad's eyes. There's an empty pit growing in Dean's stomach and if he didn't have Sam by his side, the pit would surely swallow him whole.

"We're going back there aren't we? To North Carolina?" Sam says. _To where you found me, to where you killed Silas_, is what he doesn't say.

"Yes, kiddo." Dean tightens his grip on the wheel. "We're going back so we can end this."

~0~

TBC 

_So I know this story contains similarities to certain plot lines in Season 4 but it was always the direction I had intended on taking and I think it's from a need to see things played out how I would like have liked them to happen in the show. I guess I just want the brothers standing side by side again._

_Good news to any limp Sam lovers is that the real whumping is still to come....I was aiming to put it in this chapter but those who know me, know my aim sucks. This story is turning out longer than expected and I don't want to rush what I always think of as the best bits._

_And finally....the wait for Season 5 is painfully long so if anyone is interested there is a fantastic **Summer of Sam Love** fic exchange taking place over on LJ, a link to the community which has been created for the event can be found on my LJ page - which you can reach from my ffnet profile. Hope to see you there._


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** November Falls - Part 4  
**Author**: Blueeyedliz  
**Word count**: 4,133  
**Rating**: NC/17 for bad language and violence  
**Summary**: They lose Sam in November....Teenchester fic with some serious Sam whumpage...what? Yes, I know I like whumping Sam and I'm totally okay with that. :D  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine.  
**A/N**: Sorry for the ridiculous delay. This final chapter is for Blair.

**November Falls – Part Four**

Dean drives fast, too fast. Scenery whipping by the windows with such speed they could be anywhere in the States right now.

Through the glass, everything outside of the car is a mesh of muted colors. Harsh browns and soft greens.

Towns come and go in an eye blink. Mere seconds pass by before they're passing city limits and travelling along roads which carve their way through sprawling farmland.

Years ago—long before Sam vanished and back when the Impala was Dad's baby, not Dean's—Dad would sometimes give Dean permission to take the car out, providing he promised to refill the tank. It was a rare treat, considering Dean's young age and mainly came about whenever they were staying in some minuscule burg in the middle of nowhere and his boys were crawling up the walls.

They'd drive for miles, no real direction just the thrill of the open road. Windows wound down, voices singing in unison to the stereo. Sometimes Dean would grow bored and start honking the horn, scattering petrified cattle like pins in a bowling alley while Sam chastised him from the passenger seat. Not that Sam's scowl ever hung around for long, Sam enjoyed the freedom of those unusual aimless journeys as much as Dean did.

Now Sam is back, sitting beside him, solid and real and it's as though nothing else exists beyond the Impala's doors.

Dean's breaking speed limits he'd normally obey out of a desire to avoid attracting the attention of any passing cops but his foot is refusing to ease off of the gas. Sam's starting to look sick again and he's not sure if it's the bond or other more recent events which are to blame.

Dean's feeling pretty sick himself, with his brain working overtime and a sense of agitation making him feel as though he has fire ants swarming over his skin.

~0~

They stop in a small town a few miles outside of Wilmington.

Sam stays in the car when Dean opens his door and slides out. The kid looks too ill to move and anyway, Dean doesn't plan on being gone long.

He disappears for just over twenty minutes, returning with a crumpled brown paper bag clutched in one hand. When he climbs back into his seat, he holds the bag out to Sam.

"What's this?" Sam reaches for the bag and holds it a little away from himself, eyeing Dean questioningly.

Dean looks faintly green around the gills, he waves his hand, motioning for Sam to look for himself. When Sam complies he finds a medium sized polystyrene cup, covered with a lid. His brow furrows as he opens it because even before the lid is fully off, he can smell the thick tang of coppery blood. "Jesus Christ, Dean. Where did..."

"Relax. It's pig's blood. There's a butcher's shop a block away and I told him my grandma was making blood sausages." Dean grimaces, his face still carrying a green hue which stains the skin around his pale mouth and eyes, "Are you gonna drink that now or do you want one of those tiny umbrellas?"

"_Dean_."

"Just, drink, okay? I know you're feeling shitty and you're only going to get worse if you don't drink. It's not like I'm a vegetarian, you don't have to worry about my delicate sensibilities." Dean scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth and starts the engine, busying himself with the task of driving. "Drink it," he adds forcibly and Sam reluctantly follows the order.

~0~

It's growing dark as they hit downtown Wilmington less than an hour later. Even in such a short space of time, Sam's already looking better. He's back to doing his mannequin impersonation though and that's the cause for a seriously uncomfortable atmosphere in the car.

The apartment block doesn't seem to be any different from when they were last here although Dean knows the recent murder in the building could create some problems in that the police are likely to be keeping the place under surveillance—or at least including it in their patrols.

"Sam?" Dean glances over, noticing that Sam's hands are twitching in his lap. "You okay?"

"I just—I just didn't think I'd be seeing this place again so soon."

"Stay in the car. I'll be quick. Uhm, keep the doors locked and there's a—"

"—.45 in the glove compartment. I know, Dean." Sam lifts his head to look at his brother, hazel eyes meeting green. It's not quite a smile but it's the closest Sam's come to one since they ditched Dad. "You haven't changed; you're exactly how I remember you. It's good." His gaze drops back to his hands, "At least some things stay the same."

Dean breathes out heavily, lets his hand rest on Sam's shoulder, feeling the sharply cut ridge of bone underneath his palm. "Sammy, I just need to go inside and see if there's anything I can find out."

Sam nods silently and almost laughs when Dean reaches under the driver's seat and pulls out a copy of Hustler, dropping it into Sam's lap. "Knock yourself out, short stack."

~0~

The moment Dean gets inside the building he can hear the faint canned laughter of a comedy show playing on a television a few floors above.

He's armed with a fairly passable FBI badge in case anyone pokes their nose out into the hall to investigate his presence but he still plans on getting in and out as fast as possible.

He hurries up the few flights of stairs and makes short work of tearing away the crime tape spanning the door of the Selkie's apartment, wiping sticky residue from his fingers as he picks the lock and goes inside.

The apartment is in almost total darkness but he can't turn the lights on and risk the cops seeing the place illuminated like a Christmas tree.

All of the rooms are a mess, the furniture overturned and contents of cupboards and drawers scattered across the floor. The police obviously went to town in their _meticulous_search for clues. The Selkie's abnormal corpse is probably causing waves in the PD's forensic lab but they'll no doubt think up some rational way to explain it. They nearly always do.

Dean shuffles through any paperwork he comes across but its mainly warnings for unpaid utility bills. There's nothing out of the ordinary, not even in the room where Sam was held prisoner and Dean works his way through that one with fast determination.

It's only when he's in the kitchen that he notices the stove. It's clearly an old model but spotlessly clean, as though it's barely been used. It's no real surprise bearing in mind the Selkie had a taste for dining out on fare so fresh it was usually still breathing. Dean moves closer and opens the stove door. Hidden inside is a box.

The box is beautiful, ornately carved, expensive looking polished wood. It's oddly out of place considering the derelict state of the rest of the apartment.

It's a diamond ring on a beggar's hand.

Dean can't see a key anywhere but the lock doesn't appear complicated, more for show than actual purpose. He jimmies it easily, cracking open the lid to reveal a plush satin lining and sitting inside, a heart. Not a human heart, it's too large but still has all the parts which make the organ recognizable for what it is.

_Nice_. Dean grimaces as he tips the heart out into his hand with a soft squelch.

There are many myths and legends focused on the heart. Animal hearts are big time powerful ingredients for working black magic and certain lore ties the heart to the soul and consequently, bonds between souls.

He's never heard of any lore pertaining to a Selkie's heart before but Sam was always the big research geek of the family and Dean not knowing about it doesn't mean that such lore doesn't exist. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that, odds-on, this heart is the Selkie's and its existence the very reason behind the bond remaining unbroken.

Dean pulls out his switchblade and after a moment's pause, he drives it into the heart, forcing it through the muscle until the small blade is buried to the hilt.

Nothing happens, at least nothing that Dean can see or hear but then not everything in life comes with a light show and accompanying trumpet blast.

Dean wipes his blade clean on the side of his pant leg and folds it away. Slipping it away into his pocket he picks up the box and heads back outside to the car.

It's probably unnecessary to take the butchered remains of the heart with him but Dean will feel better when it's been salted and burned to cinders, taking all traces of the bond with it.

~0~

Dean's only a few steps away from the car when he realizes that he can't see Sam sitting in the passenger seat. He instantly breaks into a run, telling himself he's being stupid for panicking and that Sam's simply decided to lay out on the bench-seat,

But as his hands hit cold metal and he wrenches his door open, he can see the Impala is empty and the back window is smashed.

It's an instant flashback to that fateful November night two years ago, the rush of guilt as overwhelming as it was then if not more so. _Not again. How could I lose him again?_

He's still frantically trying to decide where to start looking when he hears a commotion a short distance away, muffled voices and the unmistakable sound of knuckles meeting flesh.

Dean sprints towards the sounds.

A group of college kids are blocking the sidewalk, high on life and too much booze. Dean barrels his way through, managing to knock one kid sideways but he doesn't stop even when they yell angrily after him and a couple of guys make a half-assed attempt at a chase.

The alleyway is dark. Of course it's dark, it's not like the damn things have strobe lighting or luminous paint on the walls. Just once it would be nice to find one that didn't look like the setting for a crappy horror movie and smelled of something other than sour piss.

Dean nearly makes it all the way through to the other side, dodging questionable puddles and distractedly checking around for rats, before he sees them. It's Griffin--and he's on the ground at Sam's feet.

Dean gapes, stumbling to a stop, his legs still carrying forward momentum.

"He's evil..." Griffin pants, staring up at Dean through tangled strands of long grey hair as he thumbs away the blood on his lip.

Dean kicks out, letting his foot connect with Griffin's chin. "Just shut the fuck up already."

Griffin is out of it and Sam has gone down into a crouch, kneeling on the dirty concrete, breathing heavily. Both of Sam's eyes are already swelling, puffy skin the color of badly bruised fruit. There's a gun lying on the ground that Dean doesn't recognize, obviously one of Griffin's. One he'd brought with him to use on Sam.

Dean's face twists and the thought of emptying a clip into Griffin flashes fleetingly through his brain.

"He was trying to kill me. I know he's Dad's friend, I-I didn't want to hurt him..." Sam's got one arm wrapped around his middle, eyes squeezed tightly closed.

"Hey, you did good. Real good." Dean squats down so that he can lift up Sam's shirt and check his ribs. His brother's thin chest is a checkerboard of bruising to match his face and as Dean's fingers move down to his stomach; Sam flinches away from the careful exploration. It's not a good sign. Dean presses again, hissing through his teeth in sympathy when Sam moans in pain. Sam's belly is rigid, distended. He's only just fast enough to catch him when Sam's face drains of all color and he faints.

~0~

In the ER waiting room, a doctor wearing a stereotypical white coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck, takes Dean to one side and talks him through Sam's injuries which read like a checklist of pain.

Two bruised ribs, one cracked (and Dean well knows that even breathing with a cracked rib can hurt like a son of a bitch), contusions to the face and hands (where Sam had tried to block Griffin's attacking blows), one broken finger and some severe bruising. The worst is what Dean already suspects, internal bleeding. Given the hospital's basic observations this probably means ruptured organs. In Sam's doctor's opinion, a torn spleen. Sam is going to need surgery.

When he finally gets to see his brother, it's been almost two hours. Two hours too long considering Dean never wanted to let Sam out of his sight. A nurse in sage green scrubs tells him that Sam's been drifting in and out, asking for Dean every time his eyes opened. Nervous of anyone that wasn't his brother, checking Sam's temperature and attaching his I.V. had proven difficult to the point where they'd had to administer a mild sedative. Whether they believe Dean's fabricated hit and run story is another thing, it's a lie which won't stand up to rigorous questioning but for now it seems to be keeping five-o and social services at bay.

Dean takes up his post in the chair at the side of the bed, rests his hand on top of Sam's and waits.

He slips out to use the toilet after an hour of watching Sam sleeping, his little brother's face creased with pain even while unconscious. Dean smooths out the lines around Sam's eyes with the pad of his thumb before he leaves, whispers in Sam's ear that he's only going to use the can in the tiny bathroom next door.

Dean stares blankly at his reflection in the mirror which hangs over the sink. He doesn't recognize the face staring back at him. He feels used up, drained dry. He splashes water on his eyes, trying to wash away the grittiness.

Dean has fake papers, a whole trunk full but nothing which gives him guardianship of Sam. Dad could be miles away right now but wherever he is, he's most likely as pissed as hell. Dean's going to have to make that call and it scares him to think that his dad might refuse to come. That John might not understand, that he might feel the same inexplicable hate towards Sam as Griffin.

Dean wouldn't chance it before, wouldn't risk his brother's life on it. He's not sure what to do now that Sam's life is at risk either way.

He sucks in a long breath and tries to mentally prepare himself for going back into Sam's room because if Sam's awake, he wants to be ready. He needs to know what to say. _Hi kiddo, you're in the hospital because a hunter thinks you're evil. It doesn't matter that you were kidnapped and bonded against your will, your own side want you dead. Life sure is a bed of roses ain't it? _Yeah, that's probably not the way to go.

When he finally goes back, he finds Sam's bed empty and there's a man sitting in the chair.

Dean's reaching for the small folding knife tucked in his back pocket before he figures out who the hunched figure is. When the realization hits, he keeps on reaching. He can feel his voice shaking as he whispers, "Where's Sam?"

John turns to look at his son with eyes which are red and wet. Dean stares at the floor unable to bare the weight of John's indefatigable gaze. John reaches out his hand as though to touch Dean and then stops, an abortive gesture that belies his own internal battle. He ignores Dean's question as though his son never said a word. "You took off." John states numbly. He shakes his head and laces his fingers together in his lap, "I was tracking you boys and found Griffin instead, put two and two together when I saw that someone had worked him over. You think I'm like him? That I'd kill Sam without trying to save him first?"

"Dad, I—" Dean loves his dad, he does but those feelings are locked behind a shuttered door and Dean won't choose.

Not when the choice was made long ago.

John's face darkens and he motions at the empty bed. "I've signed the forms, Sam's being prepped for surgery."

Dean slumps back against the wall, only now seeing fit to move his hand away from his concealed weapon. He wishes he could have spoken to Sam before they whisked him away, even if Sam hadn't been awake to hear it. "I think I broke the bond...between Sam and the Selkie."

"So Sam really is Sam again?"

"He always was."

"I wouldn't have harmed a hair on his head. I would have helped you save him."

Dean clenches his teeth and nods shakily but doesn't agree or disagree, his doesn't trust his voice enough and his silence is probably the answer which says the most anyway.

A few minutes pass and Dean's head suddenly jerks up, "What about Griffin?" He's horrified that it's taken him until now to remember. The desire for revenge flares brightly as Griffin's name leaves his lips.

Something dark and dangerous flashes through John's brown eyes. "He won't be going anywhere for awhile, not with both his legs busted. He needs to learn to be more careful, there's some dangerous people around."

"You think he'll be back?"

"If he is we'll be ready for him."

Dean nods, although his blood lust isn't sated. They sit down together to wait for Sam. Old magazines and crap television doing little to ease their fractured peace. Each dragging second marked by the slow ticking of the clock hanging on the wall.

~0~

The sound of the door opening is nearly enough to startle them both. John and Dean move to stand with their backs pressed against the wall. Both to give the nurses and silver-haired doctor the space required to wheel Sam back into the room and in the hope they'll remain inconspicuous enough not to be asked to leave.

It takes them awhile to get Sam back into his bed and hooked up again. By the time they've finished Sam has the addition of an oxygen mask, an I.V. for pain relief, one for dehydration and another pumping someone else's blood into his veins.

The irony isn't lost on Dean. Everything seems to come back to blood, one way or another.

Sam looks frail and hollow-eyed, more like an old man than a kid and Dean chews on his lip to combat the exhausted emotions threatening to tumble out in an ungodly manner. His legs are jelly and the world tilts as he walks an unsteady zig-zag line to plonk himself back down in the chair by Sam's bedside. When Dad pulls his attention away from Sam to notice, he disappears out of the room mumbling about fetching Dean something to eat and drink.

For once, Dean's not overjoyed at the prospect of food, not even entirely convinced he'd be able to keep anything down.

Dean takes the time alone to press his warm lips to the back of Sam's cold hand, watching the movement of his brother's chest to remind himself that life still resides within the pale inert body. "Hey, Dad's here now and...we love you, Sam. You're safe. It's all over. You're going to be okay."

For the first time since finding Sam, he cuts himself some slack. Walking over to the window overlooking the city, he presses his forehead against the glass, soaking up the coolness like a sponge. If he cries, well, that's something nobody else needs to know about.

~0~

When Sam wakes up he's groggy and disorientated, opening his eyes only for them to slide closed. Dean wraps his fingers around his brother's wrist, offering him a grounding touch-point and Sam blinks awake again.

Sam doesn't attempt to talk. Dean feeds him a couple of ice chips, which he opens his mouth for, jaw working as the ice melts. He's staring away from Dean and there's no way in hell the water jug on the table by the side of the bed is _that_ interesting.

"When are we leaving?" Sam asks finally, voice so ragged and low that Dean has to lean forward to hear him.

"We're not going anywhere until you're well again."

"But social services..."

"Dad's here, we don't need to run." The machines by Sam's bedside have been beeping steadily all this time, the soft repetitive sound mingling with Dean's own heartbeat until he'd almost forgotten they were there but he notices them now as the beeping speeds up, growing louder. "Hey, easy. Calm down!" Dean leans over the bed rail and presses down on Sam's shoulders trying to stop him from jostling his damaged ribs as Sam's chest starts to heave.

John hasn't left Sam's room once since his trip to the hospital cafeteria. Leaning heavily against the doorframe or slouched in a chair staring out of the window, always hovering only just in the periphery of Dean's vision but he steps forward now, moving out of the shadows from a darkened corner of the room. "Sammy?"

Sam's goes still, through fear or something else, Dean can't tell. His breath is still coming in short panted gasps. "I'm sorry Dad. Sorry I couldn't fight him...stop him." Sam's covers his face with his hands. "I should have run away, found my way back to you somehow."

It takes both John and Dean a long minute to realize Sam's talking about the Selkie and not Griffin.

They both dart forward at the same instant, their stream of words overlapping and yet carrying the same message. "It's not your fault, don't say that, don't even think that."

John rests his hand on the pillow by Sam's head, rolling the end of one of Sam's unruly curls between his finger and thumb. He looks lost and Dean's never seen his father appear so helpless and unsure. John Winchester always knows what to do, what to say. Except it seems, where his sons are concerned.

Slowly but surely the tension begins to melt from Sam's body. His breathing easing up as he settles down to sleep under his dad's familiar touch.

Dean watches the unfolding scene and closes his own heavy eyes. Dad can take the wheel for awhile, he knows in his heart that they're going to be okay. It's only as he's tipping over the void into sleep that he hazily remembers that today is the first of December.

~**end**~


End file.
